There is no Glory in Death
by Suklaamousse
Summary: ‘Today, I realised, will be the day that I die. Whether it’s a bad thing or a good thing, I haven’t decided yet.’ Severus Snapes last contemplation about his life and death. Vignette. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer** This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Beta:****Trilobitian**

**There is no glory in death**

**May 2nd 1998, Shrieking Shack**

There is no glory in death.

You die, your body starts to rot, and eventually you are forgotten. It's the same no matter who you are.

Some of us are missed by the living, but I wonder how much of that pain is for the life lost or how much is our own egocentric grieving for what we've lost.

Do we weep because we've lost them; weep as we would for the death of a beloved who left this earth too young, too full of life? Do we weep for the loving family and friends they left behind? Do we weep for the life they should have had? Or do we weep for what we lost?

Death makes us sad. It's the unavoidable end of our existence. Death reminds us we are all mortals; that one day we all will die and no-one knows what happens after. We fear the unknown.

Darkness is often more foreboding than the path we can see. Darkness is the unknown and death is nothing but darkness. But sometimes the path we are travelling isn't the one for us and we are forced to travel in darkness, either by choice or because we have no other option.

Sometimes we welcome death, whether by glorified notion of heroic death or by our fear to live another day with our actions. Sometimes death can be a blessing.

Sometimes.

I use to think I'd be forgiven when I die. That all my mistakes and bad deeds would be rectified and I would die knowing I did something right, that my life was worth something. How foolish of me.

Flesh and bones turn into dust and in the end we are forgotten. What is the meaning of life? Is it to have children who will remember us after we are gone? Is it to give the world a legacy of knowledge? Is it to have our names written in history texts, to have the future generations know our names but not who we were? Is it to be happy? If it is, my life had no meaning.

Sometimes I think it's my meaning, my purpose in life to die in this war.

But there is no Glory in death.

There is no honour, no joy, no holiness in killing, murder, torture and massacre, in wounded flesh and blood-soaked streets, in dead children and broken-hearted mothers. There is no glory in war. Peace is a value to be cherished above glorious victories. But the price of peace is too high for me to bear, should I live another day.

Sadly, I have come to this conclusion in the moment I die.

I have sent _him_ into the arms of death. I told him he had to die so others could live. I watched him go, knowing he would die shortly after me, and because I told him so. I sent the only son of my beloved to his demise so these unworthy people could have a chance to live. I told him to sacrifice himself for the others. I killed the one Lilly died protecting.

The price of peace. Kill the child of my only love.

He was a Hero, a Legend even before he could walk.

Legends don't die, they just fade away_. _

It is a widely held belief among witches and wizards, taken as absolute truth by society, save for the ones who have lived long enough to witness one Legend after another. They knew the truth. That Legends did die, painfully and usually alone, but always as a Legend. Nowhere was this knowledge more prevalent than among the survivors of the old war, those who had witnessed the First War against Lord Voldemort and the Second and the First world wide wars before that.

The British society had produced a great many Legends, including what they and many other countries considered great Legends, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, James and Lilly Potter, Frank and Alice Longbottom… Albus Dumbledore, by my hand no less. All Heroes, all Legends.

They had witnessed the Legend's triumph and their crushing deaths, one after another.

So, I know, better than most, that Legends do die... painfully and alone. I know the true fate of Legends, and yet I still watch as Lily, my Love's, child leaves to face his death in the hand of the Dark Lord.

Everyone will cheer... but not I, Severus.

In the old war, who did wizarding society have to stand against the Dark Lord? The Ministry was powerless, hiding behind politics and weakness known as stupidity. The Aurors were stretched thin. And the civilians hid in their homes, hoping the bad man would leave them alone. Naïve simpletons. All of them.

It was then when darkness was winning, a new hope, a new Hero, a Legend was born.

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... __  
__Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... _

Nobody knew how it happened, but James and Lilly Potter were found murdered in their home and little baby Harry was found with a scar shaped like lightning on his forehead. The monster was dead and the Wizarding World cheered. Little baby Harry lost everything and they cheered. They celebrated the day their Hero lost his family, his future.

...They _knew_, and yet they cheered!

For the younger generations, those who did not understand the truth about Legends, there was nothing to be sad about. They celebrated in their innocence. Mothers, fathers and children cheered happily, calling out to their Hero, their Savior, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived. It was the old generations, the grandfathers, the grandmothers, whose wisdom was often forgotten, those who offered the most respectful forms of praise.

Each offered a wan, sad, knowing smile. A new Legend was coming. They would watch, of course, but for them any joy they found in this would always be bittersweet.

Still, it was in this moment, when a child lost his family, when it all started, the prelude of the brightest star of the current generation. The Ministry had failed, the Aurors had failed. The hope was almost lost. But all that was forgotten, all that mattered was this moment, when a boy defined his beginning as a Legend. Before he could even walk.

The story of how the Boy Who Lived saved them all from the evil Dark Lord would be a fairytale to children through out the world, it would be embroidered as time went on, and things would be forgotten, but a Legend would still be defined. Most importantly, however, the children would begin to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, they would always be saved by a Hero.

The moment Harry Potter defined himself; he set himself on the bitterly painful path that all Legends followed. And he didn't have a choice.

And I, Severus, was the one to send Harry to his purpose, to die, so the others who hid in their homes could live another day.

And in this moment of epiphany, the moment of my death I realize it had all been for nothing. I wasn't forgiven, Lilly's child would die, and the Wizarding World would live to crumble another day.

I have nothing but regret and my life didn't have a meaning. It's a sad thought really, to die knowing it was all for nothing.

There is no Glory in death.

--end--

-What do you think?


End file.
